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These to the beasts of every field give drink; There the wilde asses swallow the cool springs; And birds amongst the branches on their brink Their dwellings have and sing.

Thou, from thy upper springs above, from those Chambers of rain where heav'n's large bottles

lie,

Doest water the parch'd hills, whose breaches close, Heal'd by the showers from high.

Grass for the cattel, and herbs for man's use,
Thou mak'st to grow; these, blest by thee, the

earth

Brings forth, with wine, oyl, bread: all which infuse

To man's heart strength and mirth.

Thou giv❜st the trees their greenness, ev❜n to those
Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs
The birds their nests build; though the stork doth
The fir-trees for her house.
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To the wilde goats the high hills serve for folds,
The rocks give conies a retyring place:
Above them the cool moon her known course holds,
And the sun runs his race.

Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night; In whose thick shades and silence each wilde beast

Creeps forth, and, pinch'd for food, with scent and

sight

Hunts in an eager quest.

The lyon's whelps, impatient of delay,
Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek
Their meat from thee, who doest appoint the prey,
And feed'st them all the week.

This past, the sun shines on the earth, and they
Retire into their dens; man goes abroad
Unto his work, and at the close of day
Returns home with his load.

O Lord my God, how many and how rare
Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou
made

Them all; and this the earth, and every blade
Of grass we tread, declare.

So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are
Innumerable creeping things, both small
And great: there ships go, and the shipmen's fear,
The comely spacious whale.

These all upon thee wait, that thou maist feed Them in due season: what thou giv'st they

take;

Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need,

And plenteous meals they make.

When thou doest hide thy face (thy face which keeps All things in being), they consume and mourn; When thou with-draw'st their breath, their vigour sleeps,

And they to dust return.

Thou send'st thy spirit forth, and they revive; The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, And to thy works art true.

Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage Is mov'd and trembles, the hills melt and smoke With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage

At thy rebuke are broke.

Therefore, as long as thou wilt give me breath,
I will in songs to thy great name imploy
That gift of thine, and to my day of death
Thou shalt be all my joy.

I'le spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver Shall be consum'd. O my soul, bless the Lord! Yea, blesse thou him for ever!

THE BIRD.

HITHER thou com'st. The busie wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing

Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm,

For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, Rain'd on thy bed

And harmless head;

And now, as fresh and chearful as the light,
Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing
Unto that Providence whose unseen arm
Curb'd them, and cloath'd thee well and warm.
All things that be praise Him; and had
Their lesson taught them when first made.

So hills and valleys into singing break; [tongue, And though poor stones have neither speech nor While active winds and streams both run and speak, Yet stones are deep in admiration.

Thus praise and prayer here beneath the sun Make lesser mornings, when the great are done.

For each inclosed spirit is a star

Inlightning his own little sphære,

Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far, Both mornings makes and evenings there.

But as these birds of light make a land glad,
Chirping their solemn matins on each tree;
So in the shades of night some dark fowls be,
Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad.

The turtle then in palm-trees mourns,
While owls and satyrs howl;
The pleasant land to brimstone turns,
And all her streams grow foul.

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all flye, Till the day-spring breaks forth again from high.

THE TIMBER.

SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers Past ore thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green

shoot

branches

Towards the old and still enduring skies;
While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line

Of death doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;

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